Beside You
by Ashley A
Summary: Two friends. One relationship. Complicated? You bet.
1. Default Chapter

Authors note: Pre movie/during movie/post movie probably. Two friends. One relationship. Complicated? You bet.

Warning: Slash content. A/L

Rated R

Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. All stories are written for fun and for me to drool over Lancelot/Arthur. J

Part one of ?

A blustery night, full of stars. The heavens seemed open to any soul who chose to search out their secrets, and the air was perfect for a lover's tryst or an evening on the green.

Bleh.

Lancelot twirled his double blades, one in each hand, experimenting with a new move that had sprained his left wrist painfully the week before. He was still trying to get it right, and thank the gods he was moving a little more fluidly now.

The area just outside the outpost, south of the wall of course, was empty this late at night, and he welcomed the chance to be alone.

The normal Lancelot, the one who pulled tavern girls onto his lap, who whispered words in their ears til they blushed, the one who drank his friends under the table, or the one who rode evenly with Arthur into battle was absent for the moment.

This Lancelot was moody and sour. And he wasn't pleasant to be around.

He especially wasn't pleasant to the person who actually lived inside his skin.

"Blast!"

The blade fell from his left hand again, and in a moment of fury, the dark haired knight threw the other blade away from himself. It landed with a soft clang into the grass a few feet away.

"Perhaps you should try archery?"

"Leave it, Arthur. I am in no mood at present," Lancelot snapped, and flopped down onto the ground huffily. Arthur just stood there, his arms crossed and his expression neutral.

"What can I do for you, commander?" Lancelot asked finally, when he was certain Arthur wasn't going anywhere.

"Nothing for the moment. I heard the sound of movement and came to see who was out here so late in the day."

The Roman stared into the sky, marking the position of the brightest star, and Lancelot was struck again by the angularity of the man's profile.

Strong brow, solid, Roman nose, cleft chin (oh, how the fortress women loved it), prominent cheekbones.

The only thing that didn't fit the classic look were his lips.

Lancelot had ruminated many a cold night on those lips. He had been trying for the most part to ignore thoughts of that nature…and that seemed to be part of what was bothering him so.

He knew Arthur would never reciprocate. Not in the way that he wanted. So he had spent as much time away from the captain as possible.

It wasn't working out too well.

"What are you gazing so intently at?" Arthur asked, snapping Lancelot out of his reverie. The Sarmatian cleared his throat, shifting on the ground.

"Nothing, Arthur, nothing. So, you've seen me, now you can go to bed. All right?"

Arthur strode to him, and sat down on the earth next to him. Lancelot groaned internally.

"What is it?" he voiced snappishly, then softened his tone.

"What is troubling you, Arthur? I can see it in your eyes."

Which he could now that the other man was so close. Intense green eyes, surrounded by shadowy black lashes. Normally so calm and collected, they were almost a forest green, so deep in thought was their owner.

"Bishop Germanus of Rome is headed this way. Bearing some very important papers for people stationed here at the outpost. We are to meet the caravan and protect him on the rest of his journey here."

Lancelot brought his knees up, and wrapped his long arms around them.

"And this troubles you why?"

Arthur sighed. "Because. He already has a consort of guards. What's seven more? I fear there is some ulterior motive at work."

Lancelot laughed, resting his forehead on his knees, his face to the ground.

"Arthur, one day you will stop seeing the blackness behind everything. 'Twould do you a world of good, I think."

"What makes you say that?" the commander asked. He flopped onto his back, supporting his weight with his elbows. Lancelot mentally smacked himself. Leave it to Arthur to want to meditate on personal faults the night before a dangerous mission. They should all be carousing and drinking and dragging the closest willing maid…or whomever… into their quarters.

But not Arthur. He wanted to discuss things. Lancelot flung himself backward, his hair flopping into his eyes. He was all bony limbs and splayed body, the night chilled grass doing nothing to dampen his mood or his strangely growing ardor. He stirred uncomfortably. Being around Arthur lately…had been a battle in more ways than one. He shook his head, plunging ahead.

"Because, friend, when I look into your eyes nowadays, I see naught but shadows and lines," Lancelot stated plainly. If Arthur wanted to know, Lancelot was the last person who would pull any punches.

Arthur did not answer. Instead he continued to stare into the sky. The younger knight was taken aback by this reaction, but pressed on. His lips seemed to move of their own accord.

"Arthur, you are thin and pale. You don't laugh, you spend hours at a time going over battle plans and maps, and you don't drink with us any more. Your skin is sallow and you are jumpy. The only thing that hasn't changed is your propensity to kill quickly and effectively. No Woad, nor Roman for that matter, would dare offend you now for fear of being cut down before they could draw breath."

"It is my duty, Lancelot, to be prepared for any eventuality. I cannot help it if I can't find time to carouse with the rest of you," Arthur replied. His tone was like rock, and Lancelot swore he could almost see icy mist forming around the man's words. He could be a statue with that expression.

Lancelot heaved himself to his feet, and retreived his dropped weaponry. He centered his mind and body, then began to put himself through the new move again. The swords flashed and dipped, and Arthur found himself almost hypnotized by their light.

"I…do not mean to be harsh," Arthur said quietly after watching the knight practice at some length.

"You are harsh. And I am trying to concentrate – damn!"

His blade again fell from the weaker left hand.

"Gods mercy! I should have gotten this by now!" Lancelot roared, his blood boiling, the sweat coming from him now like a tide.

He rotated his left wrist experimentally, then hissed when a shot of pain lanced up his arm.

"Blast it! Damn it to hell."

Arthur was up and next to him before the younger man even saw him move.

"No," Lancelot said, and strode away a few paces. "Do not come so near me…for you may be sorry afterwards." He panted as he spoke, his anger at himself and his general moodiness boiling over. The Roman cocked an eyebrow, and crossed his arms.

Lancelot unconciously licked his lips, still cradling his hand. He was a demon with those blades, he knew it. Just a few moves more, and he would be a god. But here was the one man who could break his concentration enough to make it impossible for him to do anything but dream and lust and sweat. And he was not in the mood for that at the present.

His body, however, was not obeying his mind.

"Lancelot," Arthur said, in a pleading tone that the other man was sure he had never heard from the captain before, "What has stirred your anger?"

A barked laugh came from the other man's throat, rough as sandpaper. Arthur started at the sound.

"Are you sure you wish to know, commander?"

Arthur stalked to Lancelot, who took an unexpected step backward at the look on Arthur's face.

"You ask me that?" he said, in a voice that belied the attitude behind the murderous look.

Something cracked in Lancelot's heart at those words, and his body took control, leaning forward. He grabbed Arthur's face between his hot hands, and kissed him. Hard.

The older man's eyes popped wide open. Lancelot could swear he saw the sky reflected in their irises before he shut his own.

He pulled away quickly, breathing like a man just finishing a race, and dropped to a squat, his arms on his knees, his face in his hands.

Arthur made no move, merely raised a trembling hand to his lips, touching them lightly.

"You are what is wrong, Arthur," Lancelot replied after a time, his words barely audible through his hands. "I cannot breathe without you. I am a slave at your feet. I am at your beck and call. I would walk through hell to be by your side. And yet, I have to watch you, sleep beside you, drink with you every day and every night, and cannot have what I wish. It is like living a nightmare."

He stood quickly, the uncanny resemblance to a child's boxed toy forcing a hysterical laugh out of Arthur. He realized that was the wrong reaction; the Sarmatian man's eyebrows drew together like thunderheads and his already dark eyes grew almost black.

He bent to retrieve his blades, sliding them through the sheaths on his back. At the quiet zinging metal sound they made, Arthur's eyes squeezed shut, his hands clenched at his sides.

The two men faced each other, one desperate for an answer, the other wishing he could come up with one that was true to his friend and his own heart.

"I…I do not know how to answer you, my friend," Arthur whispered at last. "I love you like no other, but this…this is too much. It's too deep, too real. I cannot imagine my life without you in it – but…"

Lancelot smiled, and Arthur sighed inwardly. He didn't have the right words. Lancelot was going to be hurt.

"I understand, commander. I'll be bedding down now, tis a late night, after all. Too late for this knight," he joked, but the pain was plainly evidenced on his slender face.

He crossed his right hand to his left shoulder, made a short bow, and turned on his heel.

"Lancelot," Arthur started, but the Sarmatian was already halfway to the fortress. Arthur winced to see the stiffness of his gait.

The Roman stood still, staring at the sky. Its beauty did not move him.

How in the hell were they to get past this? And did he want to?

"Damn it," he whispered to no one, and turned to follow his friend.

End of part one.


	2. Two

Part two.

Arthur was fairly pleased with the way things had gone with retrieving the Bishop. Granted, people had been hurt, and plenty of men had died, but they were lucky and had remained unscathed for the most part.

After seeing the man to his quarters, Arthur made his way to the 'war room' as Lancelot jokingly called it. The brazier was lit and warming the place softly, the way he liked it. He blew out a breath, and grabbed up a small cup of spiced wine before seating himself to look over the maps he was revising for the garrison.

He tried bravely to concentrate on the task at hand, but in annoyance finally pushed the papers away, and tipped his head back. The fifteen years were almost up. One day left. One day with his friends.

One day to figure out a way to talk to Lancelot. The man had been all business and hilarity on the ride to find the Bishop; when Arthur had tried to press him, he had made a joke or changed the subject quickly.

"Damn it, man, you're the one who started it," he muttered, running a hand through his curly, disheveled hair.

"Started what?"

Arthur jumped, then sighed. "Why must you sneak up on me like that?"

"Because I like to see your reaction," Lancelot snarked, and threw himself down in a chair near to Arthur. He put his booted feet on the table, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Have you spoken to the Bishop?" he asked. Arthur nodded.

"He will speak with us tonight…I would assume to give you your papers of safe conduct." He grinned at his friend. "Fifteen years…a long time in coming. Drink with me?"

Lancelot jumped up from his seat, and came around to take the proffered cup from the other man's hands.

They stood closely, Arthur's mind at war with his body. They touched their goblets together, and drank. Arthur could almost feel the heat rising from Lancelot's skin, and a small shiver passed through him. He could not deny it was a feeling he found pleasurable.

"Cold, my lord?" Lancelot asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Why have you not spoken with me?" Arthur burst out.

Lancelot frowned at him, drinking more wine. "I have spoken with you every day, Arthur. What do you mean?"

"You damn well know what I mean," the Roman said, his face coloring. He slugged back some more of his drink, then faced the other man.

"Oh, the other night? It meant nothing, Arthur, I promise you," Lancelot said, speaking rapidly and turning to stare at the maps on the table.

"Truly? I was under a different impression," Arthur said, his voice lowering. "_I am a slave at your feet?_ God, Lancelot. How can I respond to that?"

"I was drinking. My head was not clear," Lancelot said shortly. He was studiously avoiding Arthur's gaze.

Arthur laughed harshly. "Lancelot, you hold your drink better than any man I know. What are you afraid of…" he trailed off as the other man set down his cup, his eyes hooded dangerously.

"I? Afraid? Surely you are joking, Arthur." The knight stood a centimeter away from his commander, could feel his warm breath caress the skin of his face.

Neither man spoke. They stared at each other, the air thick and humid around them. Arthur set his cup down, not breaking his gaze with Lancelot.

"What do I mean to you, Arthur?" the Sarmatian said, his voice as quiet and serious as Arthur had ever heard it. "Our service to Rome is done. What will you do tomorrow?"

"…I wish I knew," Arthur replied softly.

Lancelot felt as if he were on fire, then coated in ice. He couldn't let it end like this…as much as he was afraid of pushing Arthur too far.

His hand rose of its own accord, brushing an errant hair out of Arthur's face. The older man took a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut.

Lancelot took a chance, and let his hand linger on the nape of Arthur's neck. When it wasn't pushed away, he ran a light fingertip over the ridge of jutting collarbone that peeked out of Arthur's tunic.

He felt Arthur's skin tighten, and waited. Nothing. He ran his hand across the other man's throat, touching the other collar bone as he had done its brother. Arthur gasped once, and Lancelot pulled his hand away.

"Don't," the Roman whispered, and pressed his palm over Lancelot's hand, which he brought to hover over his heart.

Lancelot felt a joy so blinding he didn't know what it was at first. By the gods, was he getting a chance at this?

He stepped in closer, and traced the same fingertip over Arthur's features, his brow, his eyelids, his cheekbones. He traced them over and over, as if memorizing their feel. He knew that come the morning, this might be only a concocted dream of his, but at the moment he didn't care.

At last he grazed the full lips, and trembled slightly himself. He leaned in, dropped his hand, and brushed his lips against Arthur's.

He tasted the droplets of wine still there, and was almost driven insane by the headiness of it. The blood rushed through his body, zinging through every limb and making his hair stand on end. When Arthur reached out and caught him by the back of the head, he knew he was imagining things, for this couldn't be happening. Not to him. And not with Arthur.

He was gentle. Not like he had been the few nights before.

Arthur's mind was swimming; what the hell was he doing? He couldn't stop touching Lancelot any more than he could stop breathing. The touch felt like home. It felt like something that had been missing his whole life, only he hadn't known it wasn't there.

He sunk his hand into the other man's curly hair, and dragged him closer, so close that their bodies were flush with one another. He turned his head, deepening their contact, and swallowed the moan that erupted from Lancelot's mouth.

Lancelot's arms snaked around Arthur's body, he held onto him as if he would be lost without the other man to anchor him to the present.

When Arthur tentatively responded by wrapping one hand around his bicep, he threw caution to the wind, and increased the pressure on Arthur's lips, begging for entrance.

Arthur's eyes opened wide for a moment, then slammed shut at the intensity on Lancelot's face.

He was falling too deep to stop now.

Opening his mouth, he made a garbled sound when Lancelot's tongue met his.

So good, too soon, too fast.

"Stop, Lancelot, wait," he panted, pushing the other knight away hard enough to make him crash into the edge of the table.

Lancelot wiped a shaking hand across his eyes, the longish hair coated in sweat hanging in his face.

"_It meant nothing_," Arthur whispered, dazedly.

"I understate my feelings sometimes," Lancelot said, his voice cracking.

Arthur collapsed into his chair weakly, his knees no longer able to support him. Lancelot slid down a leg of the table, ending up on the floor.

"Why did you wait so long?" Arthur finally asked. Lancelot just shook his head.

"I could not bear to tell you and have you not love me," he answered simply. "It would have been too much."

"You have the most wreched timing, my brother," Arthur stated, the other man merely sighing.

"Tell me something I do not know, Arthur."

End part two.


	3. Three

Author's note:

Thanks to SJS for the kind reviews and making me notice that this is indeed set during the film in the second and now this chapter. big duhhhhhh sorry for any confusion…my original thought was to have this start pre movie and then procede throughout scenes of the film. So there you go.

**This chapter rated hard R for slashy sex**. ulp my first time writing it. Please be gentle! J

Feedback is good!!!

Part three.

Arthur stood still as the Bishop swept from the room.

One more mission. One more dangerous than any they had ever faced. His body heaved, his mind whirled like an eddy in a storm filled ocean.

How in God's name was he to tell his men this now? On their last day?

God. And Lancelot. He found himself raising a hand to his lips, still bruised from their earlier encouter. His body reacted strongly, and he shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in his full Roman military dress. His anger and pent up rage threatened to overwhelm him…and his thoughts kept returning to one person, and the solace he could offer.

He moved at last, going to one of the tall, thin windows that edged the room. Looking down, he could see his men already drinking, playing with barmaids, and laughing uproariously. Lancelot sat with some Roman guards, playing a card game.

"Help me, Lord, to do what is right," he murmured, leaving the too warm room.

"Best of three," Lancelot told the guards he had been gaming with. It showed that his mind was not where it was supposed to be in that he was actually losing.

When Jols and Galahad called out for Arthur, he sauntered over to join the rest of the knights, and was horrified to discover that their freedom had been snatched away, just as easily as it had been dangled in front of their eyes.

Arthur's eyes were bloodshot and his face was stoic, but Lancelot could feel the pain radiating off the man in waves.

He watched in silence as Galahad followed Gawain in disgust, and tracked Arthur with his eyes as the other man walked stiffly away from the courtyard.

_Infernal brooding bastard._

He trailed after Arthur finally, helplessly caught in his wake.

_Burn me…and cast my ashes to a strong east wind._

Lancelot heaved as sigh as he walked slowly toward his own apartments.

_I do believe I have become melodramatic in my old age, _he thought as he shut the door heavily behind him.

He removed his battle armor, piece by piece. At last, clad in leather tunic and pants, he approached the small bed, sitting heavily and removing his boots.

A soft knock came at the door, so quietly he thought he had imagined it.

"Enter," he said guardedly, and was surprised to his core to see Arthur there.

"Did I forget something?" Lancelot asked sarcastically, and jumped almost out of his skin when Arthur made his way swiftly to sit by him. The other man had removed his military dress as well, and looked haggard and tired in his linen shirt and trousers.

"I need you," Arthur said in a voice not his own. It was cracked and desperate, lost.

"What is wrong, Arthur?" Lancelot replied, ready to leap up, and reached for his swords.

"Nothing…like that. Sit down."

Lancelot was used to hearing that tone of voice from Arthur in the field, but not in private.

"You need me?"

His eyes widened, and he made a little surprised _oomph _noise as Arthur pushed him down, his back hitting the bed.

His brows drawn together tightly, his face a mask of worry and hurt, Arthur touched his lips to Lancelot's. The Sarmatian shuddered, and sunk a hand into Arthur's sweaty, curly hair.

"Arthur…what…what are you doing?" he couldn't help but ask.

"Just shut the hell up and touch me," Arthur replied, his words and their quality surprising Lancelot into silence. This man was not his friend, nor his commanding officer. This man was someone in Arthur's skin, who smelled like Arthur, and felt like him, but the insides were different.

Lancelot wasn't sure if he liked it.

But he couldn't help but do as the man bid, and pulled him close by the hair.

He blazed a trail of lips and tongue across Arthur's neck and cheeks, while the other man shook silently and clutched at him. He brought his mouth around to Arthur's, and kissed him softly at first. He increased the pressure when Arthur responded, rubbing his fingers along Arthur's scalp.

He pulled gently at Arthur's tunic, and when he raised his arms in acquiesence, pulled it off slowly. Lancelot shut his eyes briefly at the sight of his commander's scar covered torso, and fingered one lightly.

"You have so many," he whispered sadly.

"No less than you," Arthur answered, his green gaze shuttered from Lancelot's view by the flushed skin of his eyelids.

There. There was the man Lancelot would die for. He met Lancelot's gaze, his eyes a deep color, fired by hopelessness or desire, the knight wasn't sure.

"Arthur, maybe we shouldn't…I don't want you to regret anything come daybreak," the Sarmatian said, releasing the other man from his grip. Arthur smiled sadly, shaking his head.

"Not possible. I told you I need you…and I do. Just please, for once, do as I ask without questioning my motives?"

_Dare I believe him? I know him better than he knows himself…he will regret._

When Arthur placed his warm, calloused hand on Lancelot's neck, the younger man's brain threw all logic away, and filled his mind with nothing but the fantasy in front of him.

"As you wish, Arthur. I would do anything for you, you have merely to ask it."

When he met Arthur's questing mouth again, he tried to swallow all of the other man's rage, uncertainty, and pain into himself.

He wasn't sure if he would succeed, but he would try his damndest.

He awoke to find Arthur seated at his high window, the shutter open, and Arthur wrapped in a woolen blanket that normally covered his couch.

Lancelot scrubbed a hand over his face, figuring they still had a few hours til dawn.

"Arthur?" he asked softly. A little smile tugged at the corner of Arthur's mouth, but he did not look at Lancelot.

"I was dreaming. Of my mother," he said, and Lancelot winced. Her death was a horribly painful memory still for the other man, and Lancelot got out of the bed, dragging his own long tunic over his head for warmth.

He stood next to Arthur, who was gazing out at the interior of the fortress, dried tear tracks on his face. Lancelot ached to wipe them away, but he dared not touch him.

"Arthur," he started again, gently. "Do not torture yourself, my friend. She would be so very proud of you."

"And my father?"

"As the Bishop said, the very image. But Arthur, you are your own man, and you have made your own destiny. You must let the pain and the power of the past go."

Arthur turned to face him, his eyes like bruises set deep in his face. Lancelot could not help himself, and traced a fingertip across the man's cheekbone. Arthur did not push him away, but he did not respond either.

"And you men? I offer death at every turn. And still you follow me. You follow me, you fight for me, beside me, you drink with me, love me," he said this with a modicum of sarcasm, "and die for me. I do not deserve this, my knight. You have been loyal to the point of despondency…and on the day you are to be freed, I drag you to danger once more. How can you possibly love me? How can God, or anyone, forgive me?"

Lancelot grabbed Arthur by the face, and forced him to meet his brown eyes. The green ones that stared into his own filled with tears, which spilled over to meet the tracks from the ones that had already run down the older man's cheeks.

"How could we not? You are the only man, the only person here in this gods forsaken country who has ever shown us a tiny bit of decency or caring. You have watched us grow, taught us to fight, made men of scared and homesick boys. You fight for our rights, you make sure we are comfortable and well fed, hell, you make sure we have enough denarii to take care of our horses and armor. Damn it, Arthur, you are our one true friend here. Most of us have been gone so long, we don't remember home. You are our home."

Arthur gasped out a sob, and dropped his head to his knees, which were drawn up to his chest.

"I am your mortality, Lancelot," he whispered.

The Sarmatian sighed angrily, and vaulted himself up onto the seat next to Arthur. He leaned next to the other man, transferring his body warmth. Arthur tremored, then lay his forehead on Lancelot's knee, which was bent as well.

"Stop it, Arthur, and forget all of this for one night. I beg you. We are all here, with you, always. I am alive," he added furiously, dragging Arthur's hand against his chest, placing it over the thumping of his heart, "to which I mostly owe to you. I don't regret knowing you. Give me leave to make you forget. Let me grant that gift to you."

"I…God, Lancelot," Arthur said, raising his head. The younger man decided to risk something, and reached under the blanket wrapped around Arthur, who hissed at the sudden contact.

"You. Are. Alive. You feel, you love, you care. Don't turn me away."

Arthur arched against his hand, and the light in his eyes fired to life again. Lancelot rose to his knees, getting as close as he could to his friend.

He tilted his face so that it met Arthur's, their foreheads together, their eyes locked as he touched the other man gently at first.

"Oh.." was all Arthur could manage, as Lancelot smiled at him gently; his ministrations were obviously having the effect he wanted. They stared at each other; neither man speaking or moving as Lancelot stroked and coddled and fondled the other man into oblivion.

"God," Arthur croaked, and spilled warmly into Lancelot's hand.

At last his eyes slipped shut, his head dropping away from the knight's.

"We…I love you, do you see?" Lancelot said, his breath a hot caress that woke Arthur's ardor impossibly.

The older man didn't respond, merely leapt off the window seat, dragging Lancelot with him.

"Make me forget," Arthur repeated Lancelot's own words when they reached the bed. He smiled a lopsided grin, his whole being filled with passion for the man in front of him.

Damn the rules. Damn his thoughts, and most of all, damn his own conscience.

"With pleasure, Arthur," Lancelot replied, his dark brown gaze like liquid amber in the torch light.

They did not speak any more that night.

End part three.


	4. Four

Author's note: AU story development from here.

Anger is one of those emotions that Lancelot doesn't ever expect to take him over like it does.

When it happens, it fills his body with lightening, making his limbs dance like a puppet on a string.

His blades acted almost of their own accord, and one was thrust into the priest's belly before Arthur could order him not to move.

The prison stunk of rot, mildew, and hopelessness. It was all Lancelot could do to not vomit. As it was, his face twisted with the smell and feel of the place, and he was happy to throw his torch into the snow when they exited at last, Dagonet carrying a small boy they had found as the only living prisoner.

The priests had been guarding dead bodies. They had been praying over dead pagan bodies.

Lancelot spit disgustedly onto the ground, and mounted his horse without a word to Arthur, who was eyeing him with something like pity. He couldn't bear to see that look on his commander's face, especially when it was directed at him.

The owner of the estate, the Roman pig they had been sent to rescue, threw a fit of monumental proportions, and only stopped when Arthur threatened to tie him to his horse and drag him back to Hadrian's Wall himself. Lancelot had to smirk at that image…and he could actually see Arthur doing it, given his mood.

Tristan rode ahead, scouting for any raiders and the quickest way back to the Wall. The route they had taken was cut off by native warriors, besides, leading a group of British refugees and their ex-owners through a tight winding woodsy path was not the ideal way to travel.

The little boy they put in the wagon with the Honorius family, and Dagonet rode with them, to assure of good behavior by the family, and also to ensure the boy would be well cared for.

Lancelot was surprised to see the tender side that came out of the older knight around the young boy. He didn't know much of Dagonet's past, but would not be surprised if some sort of younger brother was involved.

The night came on quickly, and they were almost half way to the Wall.

Lancelot had managed to avoid Arthur up until now; the other man rode up next to him, the wind tossing his dark hair about, his cheeks burned by the elements. His stubbled face carried a coating of ice, as Lancelot was sure his own did.

"Those trees," he yelled over the nighttime gale that the gentle breeze had become, "We will camp there for the night. Round up the wagons and see to their safety."

He turned his large white charger and galloped off, plans clouding his mind, turning his eyes a smoky green that hid his feelings quite well.

Lancelot sighed, saluting Arthur's back.

"Aye, commander."

Gawain's arrow flew perfectly home, and dropped the bastard Roman Marius Honorius in his tracks.

The remaining few members of the man's personal guard surrendered quickly enough to Arthur, who only had to put his hand on Excalibur's hilt for them to acquiesce.

Lancelot just held onto his crossed swords, which rested comfortably on his shoulders.

Dagonet raced to the little boy, Lucan, and took him up in his long arms. The boy buried his head in Dagonet's neck, sobbing in fright and happiness that the knight was alive.

Tristan had exquisite timing as usual; his horse scattered a few of the guards as he rode up, pulling to a stop right in front of Arthur and the others as they heaved the body into the family's cart. Arthur would not allow them time to bury him here.

"Anything, Tristan?" Arthur asked his scout. The dark man shook his head, his wild locks flying about his face.

"Dead villagers – there are two relatively large settlements close to here. Arthur, if we continue on this path, we should be back to the wall within half a day's ride."

"So be it, then," Arthur said, grateful for the scout's almost otherworldly talents.

He turned to Lancelot, who had resheathed his blades, but before he could open his mouth, Lancelot nodded.

"We'll be ready within the hour, Arthur," he answered the unvoiced question, and strode away toward his horse.

Arthur followed him with his eyes, worried about the slump of his shoulders and the tightness in his body.

He mounted his own horse after a moment, and set off at the head of the slowly gathering train.

Tristan was true to his word, and they were indeed back at the Wall by nightfall. The Bishop was overjoyed to see the return of most of the Honorius family. The refugees the knights had brought back with them wandered throughout the camp, some confused, some just happy to be in out of the snow.

Lancelot disappeared as soon as the Bishop had handed out their papers, following in Arthur's footsteps; the older man had left in disgust earlier.

Lancelot tread softly down the corridors toward Arthur's room; he increased his pace as he neared his destination. He had a feeling the commander would be there, and knocked softly when faced finally by the dark cherry wood of the door.

"Enter," came from inside, muffled by the organic barrier between them.

Lancelot pushed through the door, and found Arthur seated at his small table, the room lit by a small lamp.

"Gods, Arthur, it's freezing in here," the Sarmatian voiced, rubbing his hands together. He crouched in front of the dead fire, and proceeded to light it as quickly as he could. He built it as high as possible, then stood warming his body.

The two men said nothing for a time; the younger with his eyes closed, the older studying his missives and maps spread about the table.

Arthur moved at last, pushing his papers away, a sigh of frustration echoing throughout the room.

"When do you leave?" he asked softly, not meeting the other's gaze.

"Gawain and Galahad are packing now," Lancelot answered, "not sure about the others."

"And you?" Arthur added in a tiny voice so unlike him, it made Lancelot's eyes snap open, a look of disquiet decorating his angular face.

"…why do you ask?" he asked, not willing to answer that question. He stepped away from the fireside, and crouched down next to Arthur, who was wringing his hands. Lancelot placed one of his own now warm hands over the other man's, gently extricating them from their twisted puzzle.

"You're cold," he said, accusatorily. Arthur met his eyes, shadows making his normally handsome face look crooked and bare.

"Am I? I can't feel it," Arthur answered wonderingly. The knight pulled his captain to his feet, and dragged him to the fireplace, plunking him down on a sheepskin rug laying there.

"Stay here, Arthur – I mean it," he threatened, his worry jumping a huge notch when Arthur merely nodded.

Lancelot grabbed two mugs sitting on the service by Arthur's bed, filled them with hot wine, and returned to the other man's side, sitting with him.

"Drink this," he ordered, and handed the cup to Arthur. He watched as Arthur drank, content after the older man finished the whole thing.

He sipped at his own, staring into the flames, then looking at Arthur out of the corner of his eye.

Arthur had pulled off his boots, but still rested on the floor in his armor, which was definitely not comfortable, as Lancelot well knew.

He put down his cup, not saying anything, and proceeded to walk around Arthur, unsnapping the pieces of armor gently, putting them to the side.

Arthur allowed him this, the skin on his arms puckering when the wrist guards were removed, the last thing to go.

He shuddered lightly, and Lancelot sat back down, pulling Arthur to him. He came willingly, a soft breath escaping in a whisper that sounded like Lancelot's name.

"Rest, Arthur," Lancelot murmured, stroking the commander's hair back lightly. "Stay with me."

His eyes fluttered shut as tears leaked silently down his face, soaking into Lancelot's trousers. He could care less. Arthur could stab him with Excalibur and he would welcome it.

"You were right, Lancelot," Arthur said quietly after a while. "I was a fool to think I could change anything. I have spent the last fifteen years of my life fighting for a Rome that was destroyed in my mind in a matter of minutes. My beliefs…everything I have battled for, every life I have claimed, in the name of the church and Rome…my God. What was it all for?"

Lancelot shook his head, trying to shush the other man. "You fought for us, and for our lives. It was worth it. We owe everything to you."

"But you shouldn't have to!" Arthur yelled, sitting back up, facing Lancelot, fire in his countenance and bile burning his throat. "Rome is abandoning this place. Leaving it to the Saxons, or the Gauls, or whomever decides to attack first. Galahad spoke the truth – you risked everything for naught."

Lancelot placed his hand on Arthur's chest, which was heaving with his emotion. "I risked it all for this…for your heart. And would do it again were I given the choice. Am I to return home? I honestly don't know. But tonight, Arthur, I will be here, where I wish to be. I don't care about anything but that. Romans, Britons, anyone else be damned. I am here with you. And the fifteen years I spent at your side made me the man I am – a man I can respect when the day comes to an end. It was worth it."

Arthur gaped at him like fish caught in a net. Lancelot just gazed back, nonplussed. He knew Arthur, knew him better than anyone. He knew what Arthur would be thinking…and he knew how to be there for him.

"Do not worry so, my friend," he added. "You may have our loyalty, but you do not own all of our actions. We will do as we please, myself included. Let me stay here with you. At least for tonight…I would be remiss in my actions to leave you now."

Arthur nodded at last, and Lancelot's entire body relaxed with the performing of that one gesture.

Lancelot stood, pulling the other man with him.

He pushed him toward the bed, shoving him under the covers with only a mild protest from Arthur.

"Quiet…let me care for you, yes?" Lancelot said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

Arthur just sighed, and allowed him ministrations.

The commander and the knight stayed together long after the fire finally burned itself out.

End.


End file.
